The Secret Santa

by Trish Harnetiaux

  Most days, during the first few months of sobriety, the nag came like clockwork, at happy hour. He’d sit on their balcony slowly breathing in the mountain air. The view usually calmed him. Their condo was modest but full of sunlight. Southern exposure. To fill the hours previously spent drinking, he’d been buying all kinds of plants. The green of their leaves, the pureness of the oxygen they gave off, reinforced a sense of calm. He’d focus on his new relationship with objects, with nature, how the spring trees looked like film negatives, their trunks and branches skeletally white. But soon, he knew, the leaves would come, the transformation already in the works.

  Henry was also noticing how efficient and involved Claudine was in everything. While he’d been drunk, she’d worked hard; now the business was poised, ready for its first major undertaking. He’d been a terrible business partner. He could see that now. And through it all she had stood by his side. Believed in his talent. In their future. While he stewed in self-pity, unable to let her affair with Steve go, she’d doubled down.

  When he thought back and tried to remember—how dark the blood must have looked as it was first coming out of Miller’s head; the confused look in the young man’s eye that must have been there—none of it came back to him. All he could see were flashes of driving to the house, pulling up out front, going to the door. Did he even remember going to the door? As soon as he mentally placed himself inside the cabin, all he could think about was blood. There must have been so much blood.

  Then one day it was final.

  “Henry. It’s ours.” A huge smile on her face.

  “What’s ours?”

  “The property. It officially belongs to Calhoun + Calhoun.”

  He did not ask how. Claudine had covered up a murder. Two murders. After that, nothing she did would surprise him.

  “I have a present for you,” she said.

  She led him into the living room and there, near the window, was a vintage oak drafting table wrapped with a bright red ribbon. He understood. It was time.

  He sat down and unrolled the designs, and they never talked about any of it again.

  Part Five

  * * *

  THE PROCESS OF ELIMINATION

  Claudine

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  It couldn’t be. Could it? It was. How?

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  The wineglass slipped from her fingers, smashing into pieces. Wine spreading fast toward the rug.

  Henry

  The shattering of Claudine’s wineglass brought Dave, the bodyguard, hurrying to Zara’s side.

  “It’s okay,” she said to him, quickly grabbing Pip so she didn’t walk in the glass. Then, to the rest of the group: “It’s not a party until someone spills a drink!”

  Zara might have been unphased by the gaff, but Claudine clearly was not. Henry saw the frozen, helpless look on her face. He knew she was mortified by the statue. It was ugly, cheap-looking. Not the sort of gift Claudine tolerated in the Secret Santa. An embarrassment. Someone was intentionally trying to embarrass her, to undermine the game, to make a mockery of it in front of Zara. Henry’s first guess was Steve. Maybe he wasn’t responsible for the fishing package after all. Or perhaps it was whichever one of them had tipped Steve off about the party. Or maybe it was Zara, not fully comprehending the rules of the game. Whoever it was, though, Henry had to admit that Claudine’s reaction was a little excessive. She just stood there. Immobile. Speechless. The bartender, towels in hand, rushed over to pick up the glass and sop up the pooling wine. Two of the waiters then rolled up the damaged rug and carried it away. Claudine hadn’t moved an inch since dropping the glass, her hand slightly curled as if she still held it. After finishing the cleanup, the bartender slipped a fresh glass of wine into her hand. It took no longer than thirty seconds for everything to look as if nothing had happened. Claudine finally moved, turning to look at Henry, her eyes wide and unblinking. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her so distraught. At least not since—

  “What an interesting gift,” Kevin said, hoping to end the awkward silence.

  “Yes, what an interesting gift,” Jerry said.

  “Jules, who brought it?” Claudine choked out.

  Jules looked at her with confusion, wondering if it was some kind of test.

  “I … um … I didn’t think we were supposed to say who brought the gifts,” she said. “Honestly, I tried to forget who brought what as soon as I set them on the table.”

  “Yeah,” John said, “also it’s against the rules to out someone.”

  “I make the rules,” Claudine said, “and I want to know who brought this.”

  No one said anything. Henry glanced at Zara, who, like everyone, seemed stunned and uncomfortable by the sternness of Claudine’s voice. Claudine noticed it too and quickly tried to lighten her tone.

  “I just think it’s so unique,” she said. “I’d love to know more of its provenance so people might make an informed choice about stealing it.”

  More awkward silence.

  “I didn’t bring it,” said Jack Alpine. “But you can tell a little bit about it by the way the horse and rider are positioned. Can I see it for a second?”

  Natalie passed the statue to her right. It made its way around the circle to Jack.

  “See how the horse has one leg off the ground?” Jack said. “Means that cowboy either was hurt in a battle or died shortly after from battle injuries. Two front legs up? That rider died in battle.”

  “How do you know that?” Steve asked.

  “I saw it in a civil war documentary,” Jack said.

  “Brother, we saw that together,” Bobby said, “and I think you’ve got it wrong. Two front legs up and the rider died after battle.”

  “You sure?” Jack said.

  “Pretty sure,” Bobby said.

  “Natalie, you were in the military,” Jack said. “Do you know which it is?”

  “They didn’t teach us much in basic about the history of the cavalry,” Natalie said.

  “Does the U.S. Army still have a cavalry?” Rashida asked.

  “So then what’s it mean when the horse has all four legs on the ground?” John asked. “Does that mean the rider didn’t die?”

  “If anyone would like to know the history and significance of navy signal flags,” Captain Tiggleman said, “I’d be happy to—”

  “Enough!” Claudine shouted, once again silencing the room. The Tigglemans shifted uncomfortably. Kevin coughed. Then Jerry coughed. Even Pip was at attention. This wasn’t like her, Henry thought. She was incapable of being flustered, ruffled, rattled. She never lost her composure, even in the grimmest circumstances imaginable. Why was she getting so worked up about a stupid statue? Henry thought of how quickly the Flynns had walked away from their deal after he’d embarrassed them by passing out in the restaurant. Claudine’s behavior was dangerous. How could she threaten to jeopardize their deal with Zara? What she was doing, was giving Steve an opening to steal her business. Henry stood up.

  “How about we take a quick five-minute break to freshen our drinks?” he said. “Can we get some music, please?”

  As the pianist’s hands pressed down, breaking into “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!,” everyone resumed their conversations, and most headed to the bar. Henry took Claudine by the arm and led her in the opposite direction, out of the living room and into the entry hall.

  I was a wreck after the murders. I was twenty-two and in love for the first time in my life. The only time in my life. I hadn’t experienced loss yet. Nothing had ever been taken from me before. I didn’t understand what was happening, how to process it. Not only that he was gone, but that the people of this town thought he was a killer.

  I told the diner I needed a little time off. I was having a hard time getting out of bed. I was lethargic. I was nauseated. I figured it was a sign of grief. Then a couple weeks after the murders I got another sh
ock: I found out I was pregnant. I always thought a person could only be happy or sad—that one signified the absence of the other. I didn’t know the two states could coexist. Certainly not with the intensity I felt them. Tommy was dead, but soon I’d have his child.

  I went back and forth about going to the police. Agonized over it. The only person that knew about me and Tommy was Mr. Miller. I hadn’t even told my parents. What if the real murderer found out about my connection and tried to kill me too? But knowing a baby was on the way made me determined to clear Tommy’s name. I went down to the station and spoke to the detective in charge of the case. I told them they had it wrong. Tommy wouldn’t hurt anyone. Mr. Miller wouldn’t hurt anyone. This was all impossible.

  I told him all about me and Tommy—all of the things I’ve said until now. The diner. Our dreams of hitting the road. The statue. The detective perked up when I mentioned the statue. He wanted me to tell him everything I knew about it and how it had ended up in the cabin. I asked him if that was what was used to kill Mr. Miller. The paper had only said he’d been bludgeoned, not with what. The detective told me he couldn’t share those details, but I figured it was. I started crying. If I hadn’t given Tommy the statue, maybe none of this would have happened. The detective put his hand on my shoulder and let me cry.

  When I was finished, I told him I had a lead for them. There was a young woman Tommy had told me about. She had short hair and dressed very stylishly. She had been coming around the cabin trying to get Mr. Miller to sell his land. She was very persistent. Tommy kept turning her away. He told me how one time he used the rifle to shoot a box of cookies she’d brought. I told him I thought that was a bit of an overreaction, but he said she gave him a very bad feeling. The cookies incident didn’t scare her off. She kept coming back.

  I told the detective all this. Except about the cookies. I worried the idea of Tommy using a gun wouldn’t look good. The detective dismissed me. He said, “Ma’am, do you know how many people have been trying to buy that old man out of land all these years? If we rounded ’em all up as suspects, we wouldn’t have room in the jail to hold ’em all.” No, they had all the evidence they needed. Clean-cut case. Domestic struggle. Go home. We’re sorry for your loss.

  To them, Tommy was just a hired worker. He had no status in the eyes of anyone with authority, especially the authorities. There was never a real investigation. The police didn’t care. They didn’t want another suspect. They weren’t interested in following up on every lead. They just wanted to close the case and get the story out of the papers so that it didn’t hurt tourism.

  Henry

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked as soon as they were alone in the hall.

  “That’s the statue, Henry.”

  “What statue?”

  “The statue you killed Mr. Miller with,” Claudine said.

  He had no memory of it. Claudine was the one who had told him it was a statue of a cowboy. The paper had only stated Miller had been bludgeoned to death. They never said what with or printed a picture. He wondered why seeing the cowboy statue unwrapped tonight hadn’t made him think of it. It was a lot smaller than the statue he had pictured. He imagined it was something big enough to have crushed the old man’s head like a cantaloupe in one swift strike. The Secret Santa statue wasn’t that big, a little larger than his hand. No way Miller had gone down with one blow. How many times did he have to hit him? Two? Three? Which end did he use: the square base or the cowboy? Had the sharp little rifle gotten lodged in Miller’s skull? Did he have to struggle to pry it out? But the main reason this cowboy statue hadn’t immediately reminded him of that cowboy statue was because that was never an option. There wasn’t a reality where it could be that statue. Claudine had said they would never be able to trace it to them. Locked away in an evidence room for eternity. She had promised him.

  He leaned against the wall, dizzy. His breathing jagged.

  “Are you sure it’s the same one?” he said. “Maybe the sculptor did a series of them and this is another one.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Claudine said.

  “Well, maybe it’s a big coincidence. What if the statue ended up in some secondhand store and somebody bought it to bring tonight, having no idea?”

  “That’s even more preposterous than your first idea,” Claudine said. “It was a murder weapon. It was part of a police investigation. How would it end up in some secondhand store?”

  “So then how?” Henry said.

  “I don’t know,” Claudine snapped.

  His fingers were numb. Hadn’t the doctor said to call if his fingers went numb? Or was it his arm? No, this wasn’t a coincidence. Here they were in this house. The blood house. Here they were on this land. The blood land. It knew they were there. How very dumb they’d been to think they could just walk through the door and throw a goddamn party. Why had Claudine insisted on tempting fate?

  “We deserve this,” Henry said.

  He was cracking open.

  “Look at me,” ordered Claudine. She physically turned him to face her. “Stop it. Do not spiral.”

  Her voice sounded different now, her usual collectedness and unflappability returned.

  “We need to be careful of our next move, Henry. Let’s think about what’s happening here. Someone brought that statue tonight. Before we ask who, let’s ask why. If they know what we did, why wouldn’t they go to the police?”

  “They’re trying to blackmail us,” Henry said.

  “But then why wouldn’t they confront us directly? Why go through the trouble of putting the statue in the Secret Santa game? That seems unnecessarily elaborate for a blackmailer. Unless that is the point. They want to see us squirm. They want to torture us. So, the question is: Who from this group hates us the most?”

  “Us”? Henry thought. Why “us”? He wanted to say, maybe it’s just you they want to destroy. Everyone hates you equally. The staff hates you because you’re mean. You put them through humiliations like this stupid Secret Santa game. The Alpine brothers hate you because you never appreciate their work, only tell them how it falls short. The Tigglemans hate you because they know you gouged them on the price of the last house you sold them. Kevin and Jerry hate you because you use them, constantly asking for their help with city government connections and never offer so much as a simple thank-you. Steve hates you because you used him, then dumped him. Everyone hates you as much as they possibly can, Claudine. Everyone except me. Somehow I love you. Which I guess makes me just as hateable as you. So then, yes, I suppose you are right. It is “us.”

  “Well, we can definitely rule out Zara,” Henry said. “And also Alice, Mrs. Tiggleman, John, and Rashida. They made it pretty clear that they brought the gifts that have been opened already.”

  “Steve, too, then,” Claudine said. “He obviously brought that fishing package.”

  “I don’t know,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t rule him out. Maybe we shouldn’t rule anyone out.”

  “But that’s why you traded it with Bobby for the dice he stole from you, right?”

  “Maybe that’s what he wanted us to think. Maybe he was lying. Maybe those other four were too. People playing the game and following the poem’s instructions. Like it says: ‘Now is the time to put your treachery to the test.’”

  They stood still, not saying anything. From the other room came the murmur of voices, stray notes from the piano. As the realization of what was happening settled in on Henry, his shock and terror were replaced by a kind of relief. It almost felt good to think there was someone else in the world who knew their secret. He had never taken one of those mail-in DNA tests but imagined it was not unlike the feeling of discovering you have an unknown relative living in another state or country. Someone was out there. Outrageous but true, there was something comforting about the thought that he and Claudine were no longer shouldering the secret on their own.

  “What do we do?” he asked.

  “We outplay them,” Claudine said. She ha
d shifted into battle mode.

  “How?”

  “We don’t do anything. They want to torture us. We don’t let them. We go back out there and carry on with the game. Act like everything is fine. And maybe they’ll grow so frustrated with how unbothered we are that they’ll say or do something to reveal themselves. The hunter will become the hunted. Let’s go back. Every second we aren’t there is suspicious. And it gives Steve more time to move in on Zara. From what I hear, these days he’d be lucky to get a listing in Glenwood Springs. He’s not going to steal this from us.”

  Henry laughed to himself. He knew she had thrown in that jab at Steve for his benefit. Here she was still thinking about the sale. Her zealousness never ceased to amaze him. It knew no limits.

  “There are now two goals for tonight,” she said. “Sell the house to Zara and find out who brought the statue. Remember, there is no statute of limitations for murder. You could go away for the rest of your life, and they’d put me away, too, for covering it up.”

  Claudine touched his face.

  “I didn’t let it happen then and I’m not going to let it happen now. When we’re a team, no one can beat us. This ends only one way. Zara with the house, us with the statue.”

  “That’s two ways—”

  “It’s one scenario, I have the second-to-last number. I’ll steal it from Natalie. I can’t imagine anyone else will want that cheap thing. We can figure out how to destroy it later—along with whoever brought it. Come on.”

  She turned and walked toward the living room.

  “Everyone back to their seats,” she said, the conductor taking control of her orchestra. “Who has number eight?”

  Here they were again. As if twenty years ago had never happened. The past repeating itself. Same plot of land. Same hideous secret. Same desperate attempt to conceal it. And since nothing had apparently changed, Henry figured he might as well have a drink.